


Vertigo

by o2doko



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o2doko/pseuds/o2doko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting go isn't easy, but Sherlock Holmes isn't the sort to shy away from a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vertigo

_\- seven, eight, ni-no._ He snatches the silver disc into the palm of his hand, no longer cold even though the room still is. _Four below. Hit the crease. Again._ The coin leaves his hand for its own revolutions, and its failure to reflect the golden light of the flames back to him is the first time he realizes the fire's gone out. He wonders, _how long have I been sitting here?_ at exactly the same time he thinks, _four, five, six, seven,_ and that's not hard; not as hard as gazing out the study's window while pretending not to.

Twelve, this time; better. He walks the metallic circle over the backs of his scarred knuckles in momentary pause. He knows his partner has observed him at this task before, knows that the good doctor thinks it's an exercise in dexterity. It's not. It's an exercise in ear training. The goal is to catch the coin before it begins to wobble.

There's a faint, knotted twinge at the small of his back; the glint of sunlight off the buttons of the coat hanging near the door no longer registers at the corner of his eye. He can smell the dinner Mrs. Hudson is preparing downstairs and hears the occasional clatter of pans and tea kettle. The clock on the mantelpiece is making that faint, peculiar grinding sound it emits with the effort of holding its tired old hands steady at seven and three.

He knows he's moving too slowly and wishes that time would go around, pass and leave him behind. It's too difficult to forget about it the way it's forgetting about him.

\- _ten, eleven, twel-bloody hell._ He'll have to lean forward now, bend close to the window in order to reach the baseboard behind the desk. He doesn't wonder if his subconscious has betrayed him in this, because he's deliberately chosen not to consider those sorts of possibilities tonight. Still. There's the tip of his aquiline nose, just grazing the winter-cool expanse of regrettably unfrosted glass; there's his (former) partner, at last hurrying across the street to open the door to the cab he's (they've) been waiting for. Holmes fumbles for the coin, blind in the dark, but unable not to notice the way the good doctor smiles even from way up here.

It takes John Watson thirteen steps to cross the street when he's following after the detective; tonight it has taken him ten. Mary extends her gloved hand from the doorway and palms him before even the threat of instability. _Two more, there were two more steps -_

But then, the only limits being tested tonight are his own.

It takes Sherlock Holmes precisely three steps to cross his study; four to traverse the landing. There are seventeen stairs between him and the front door, and he habitally crosses to the far side of the street in nine even strides. He leans back in his armchair now and pictures it, as he has so many potential courses of action in the past. Then he flips the coin again. It clatters hollowly on the wooden surface, grows unsteady at seven; he knows he wouldn't make it to nineteen.

 _Fall at 32; he wouldn't let me hit the floor._ It's a hypothesis only, and one he aches to test. But then he hears Watson's laughter drifting upward from the street, the first he's heard it in months. This is, after all, an exercise in ear training.

 _She could wait two more steps,_ he thinks ruefully as he sits back in his chair again, _but she never will._ He lets the coin tremble itself flat and still. He lets the cab ramble its way off down the street. He's tired, but he's no longer cold - even though the room still is. He gives it seven days at best, and smiles, and closes his eyes against the feeling of tight, dizzying revolutions that nonetheless come without the fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm currently accepting commissions; see my [gig page](http://fiverr.com/users/o2doko/gigs/write-an-original-5000-word-story-in-any-genre) for more information.


End file.
